


Desperate Developments

by silentexplorer18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Draco Malfoy in Azkaban, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Nightmares, Sappy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Tea, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentexplorer18/pseuds/silentexplorer18
Summary: Draco is sentenced to Azkaban following the War to spend one year in exile for his part as a Death Eater.  What he finds in his cell are the etchings of a prisoner's life: the thoughts, the guilt, the desperation.  For 12 hard months, it’s all Draco can stare at as he tries to cope with what’s become of his family and his future.  He leaves with tattoos, magic tattoos, the kind that brand him as a person, not a coward.  And when Harry and Draco stumble upon each other one afternoon, they both discover how much their lives have intertwined.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 217





	1. Within Broken Walls

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this idea for quite some time now, and I'm very pleased with the result. Originally, I was going to leave it with just the first chapter, but I decided to keep the story going with the second and third chapters. I hope you enjoy! :)

He should’ve known he would end up here. Even the great Potter couldn’t save him from a place like this, despite the elegantly spun words he’d used in his defense. The walls of Azkaban were meant for villains and traitors, of which he was the latter. You don’t just live with the Dark Lord, work _for_ the Dark Lord, and get pardoned from it entirely. Of all things, the least he deserved was a year in exile.

However, blood was pooling onto the rough floor of the cell - his blood, knees scraped as he was thrown in. The crimson liquid shimmered like a gem in the moonlight as it flooded across the dirt ridden floor. By morning, it would fade into the ruddy-brown color that all dried blood takes on. But it would be the blood of a traitor.

Maybe it would be better if he just bled out.

He tried not to let himself think that way, tried to think of his mother, of his father, but it was useless. They were sentenced to Azkaban for life for their part in the war. Although Potter had put in a good word for him, his parents were a different matter. They’d been adults, Death Eaters, housing the Dark Lord, and despite Potter’s statement that Mother had in some way protected him, she couldn’t be spared in the eyes of the wizarding world. As a minor, he’d been considered partially a victim.

That word plagued his mind: victim. He was no more a victim than Potter was a fairy. Really, all he’d done was keep the war going, allow things to get worse. He let the Death Eaters into the castle. He failed to kill Dumbledore. He protected himself over all else. The only word that could describe him was “coward.” He wasn’t a victim, only a fear motivated coward. But he was in Azkaban now, trapped and sentenced. Sentenced to live the next year in regret of his actions, so maybe he was a victim of something. A victim of being born.

They wouldn’t let him die here, though, only let him wish he was. So as the blood trickled over the once porcelain caps of his knees and onto the grime ridden floor, Draco tilted back his head and wished.

* * *

Hygiene certainly wasn’t of the utmost importance to those in the prison. However, on occasion Draco was offered a bucket of freezing water and two stained towels to remove as much of the caked on grime as he could. No soap or combs - such luxuries dastardly wizards couldn’t be trusted using - were provided, but any amount of cleanliness was enough to satiate him.

The washing was miserable, sending a chill through his bones, but it was something to keep his mind busy. The wild screams that echoed the halls at night reminded Draco all too well that he needed to keep his mind active lest insanity overtake him.

Although it was tempting to allow himself to succumb to such a fate, he kept reminding himself that this was only a year. Sure, it would feel like an eternity, but eventually he _would_ get out. The only way for him to be truly free was to not let his mind waste away in the confines of Azkaban’s horror ridden walls. To lose his mind would be to lose himself entirely; he’d already lost his body, skin riddled with scars and the Dark Mark that would forever brand his body as someone else’s belonging. He was eternally marked as the bad guy, the wrong side of the war.

Draco was a prisoner to own skin.

Beyond those confines, he was a prisoner to the cell. The meager walls of rugged stones were as far from welcoming as one could get, and for the first two weeks, they did nothing but send a chill down Draco’s spine. It was sickening, really, the space, filled to the brim with decay and filth. The only half-decent thing was the scent of sea salt that permeated the air. However, with each gust of fresh air, wafting away his depressing, morbid thoughts of a different lifetime, a new chill coursed through his bones. He hadn’t much protection from the cold anymore.

They were fed, as all prisoners should be, but the mush did little for Draco’s already willowy figure. His once poised physique was failing; what was once an elegant array of all angles and jutting bones was becoming even more prominent, bordering on emaciated.

Mother would have been horrified.

Draco really didn’t know if being unable to see his parents was a blessing or a curse. He could waste away as he pleased, refuse to eat the grey goo slid into his cell each morning, without the sharp words of his parents preventing it. There were no haircuts in Azkaban; he could allow his hair to grow long again, a shroud of protection hiding his worry-strained eyes and embarrassment-streaked cheekbones from the rest of the world. After his release, he could keep it if he liked. Neither of his parents could stop him, nor even voice such wishes before his release. However, in the same way not having them present to force his appearance nor post-incarceration agenda was a blessing, he also found he missed the comfort of his family quite terribly. Without his father’s protections and connections, he felt exposed, unprepared for whatever future he might have. In his youth, Draco assumed his father could control the cosmos, but now, here, he was belittled to a blond man in a rust ridden cell, a man crying out to the void where no one would condescend to listen. He was powerless, something Draco never thought his father would become. Even when his family encountered obstacles, Lucius always found a way for their family to prevail, to work around and overcome all that they needed to.

Now Draco had no one to save him.

He also lacked comfort from such worrisome thoughts with his mother caged away. There was nothing he could do to save her from this place, but the mere thought of Narcissa shoved away amongst the cold stone walls and dirty metal bed frames made him queasy. He loved her too much to imagine her in a place like Azkaban, all hatred and accusations. Her comfort, though, as sweet as honeysuckle in her own unique way, was something Draco missed dearly during his stay in the prison. Assurances of his well-being never came from the aurors marching up and down the halls. Thank Merlin, the Dementors had been removed from the grounds. His pain made him weak; it would’ve been easy for a Dementor to suck his life away entirely.

A part of his mind still whispered that maybe it would’ve been better to die than be trapped in the life of a coward, but he always reminded himself that dying from a Dementor’s kiss, even when desiring death, would be the most painful, tortuorous way to die.

As the image of his mother’s grief washed through his mind, he resolved that death, although tempting, was an act he couldn’t commit to.

* * *

The wind gusted through the cracks in the walls as sea spray slammed the rocky shore. The ocean mirrored the sky, black and churning, from what Draco could see out his meager window. He liked the white caps on the water, the rhythmic crashing of the waves, but the roaring wind and booming claps of thunder were jarring. It was too loud, too violent. For a week, the storm drug on, and the pain of the exterior matched the pain within the interior of the building. Cold and frightened from the thunder so loud it sounded like the structure would collapse under its own weight, the prisoners panicked, and wailing screams could be heard at all hours of the day and night. The cacophony skittered up Draco’s spine, grating past his ears, and clawed into the depths of his mind.

He spent that week curled under his few flimsy blankets, alternating between staring at the sea and tolerating the lackluster comfort of his bed. The cold air and damp mist filtering through the cracks were monumentally unpleasant, as were the desperate cries coming from down the hallway, but at least it was just a storm, just water.

Had it been heat, fire, Draco wouldn’t have been quite so calm.

He had nightmares about that now: fire. The image of the flames licking up the walls and devouring the Room of Requirement still haunted his mind. And Crabbe, swallowed up by the Fiendfyre, screaming as his flesh burned, blistering at every touch, left a stinging hole in his heart.

The charred body had been pulled from the room by Potter and Co., no doubt, but Vincent’s family had arranged the funeral. With the trial proceedings, Draco hadn’t been able to pay his respects. Goyle and Pansy assured him that it had been a lovely funeral, ripe with stories and bouquets of chrysanthemums. Pansy promised Draco she’d put an extra yellow rose on Crabbe’s gravestone on his behalf, but he didn’t really care. It seemed so wrong, so heartless for him to not physically attend the funeral. Although the boy had defied him in his last act alive, the mistake had cost him his life; had he lived, Draco might have been a bit less forgiving of his disobedience.

Crabbe, though a bit dimwitted at times and prone to thinking with his stomach, had been one of Draco’s closest friends through his years at Hogwarts. Through everything, they’d been allies. Whatever Draco needed - especially during his task - Crabbe helped to provide, doing his utmost to aid the blond. Even when they fought, Crabbe had come through ultimately, save their last interaction. Yet the one time Draco needed to help Crabbe, he’d failed. Crabbe was dead. And Draco hadn’t even paid respect to his corpse.

Guilt and grief flowed through his veins like tar, the pain bubbling at the surface of his temperament but never quite boiling over. To cry, to acknowledge his unfortunate situation, would be weak. The last time he’d been weak, condescended to cry, Potter’d nearly killed him. He’d allowed himself to give in, and he’d paid the price.

He wouldn’t be weak anymore.

With a huff, he rose from his bed to pace, walk away the screams ringing in his ears and the blustery chill coursing through his bones. Perhaps that would make things better again.

* * *

In his third month, he finally noticed the text carved into the farthest wall of his cell. It was faint, but in the moonlight would glow the slightest of silvers. Had Draco not been up pacing that night, he might have never noticed it to begin with. However, the metallic glint had caught his eye, almost magical in quality, but different from any normal magic he’d ever encountered.

Crouching against the jut of the wall, his fingertips trailed over the letters notched into the stone. _~~Wormtail,~~ Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs. _Wormtail had been slashed through, but the other three were carved in true, letters curling with a scrawl that pulled faintly at Draco’s memory.

Perhaps it was a code from the person who’d lived in the cell before him. More likely, it was just the mad ramblings of a prison loony, but Draco enjoyed the thought that the words meant something important. He let his imagination run with them that night, whirling with ideas of all the words could mean. Tucked in the surprisingly warm nook, his head soon lulled against the wall, chin pressed to his chest, as his his feathery hair splayed up against the dark, rocky walls.

When morning came, his neck and back would be sore, stiff from the awkward angle, but Draco would be far too enlivened to care, because further down the wall, he noticed another set of swirling letters.

_It wasn’t me._

* * *

It was three days later when the next wash bucket was brought. Typically, Draco was greedy to indulge in the sensation of semi-clean skin; it satisfied his need for a tidbit of normalcy. However, with a joyful glean in his eye, he grasped the metal bucket with dust-caked fingers and performed his rashest act yet within the walls of the prison. Water rushed against the stones in spidery tendrils as he dumped half the contents onto the floor. Under any other circumstance, Draco would have regarded the notion of this situation with disdain, turning his nose up at the mere implication of performing the work of a House Elf. After all, he _was_ better than that. Yet the allure of the hidden words, the promised contact with another human being, was too strong, and Draco dropped to his scarred knees and began to scrub the dusty crevices without a second thought.

It was messy work, utilizing the entirety of his wash bucket to clean a mere half of the floor, but the lines upon lines of etched words made the effort worthwhile. The next bucket that came would be for washing himself, he decided, but the one after that would be dedicated to the remainder of the floor so he could find every message carved into the ground.

Dinner was brought - a sickly green mush that smelled vaguely reminiscent of ingredients frequently used in the potions classroom at Hogwarts - to Draco’s cell, but the boy barely touched the slop. His fingertips were tingling with excitement as he grazed his hands across the jagged edges of the lettering. The phrases didn’t seem to be in a particular order, all jumbled thoughts and mismatched letterings, but Draco relished in the words, in the story they provided, nonetheless.

_I hope Moony knows the truth._

The truth Draco could only assume was that the prisoner didn’t commit the crimes. Mentally, he knocked Moony off the list. The person writing the messages must either be Padfoot or Prongs.

_Parents used the Cruciatus Curse. Perhaps I deserved it._

He shuddered, memories of tortured screams echoing through his home resurfacing in his mind. He could still remember the words carved in Hermione’s flesh, the pained cries of innocent witches and wizards. It was a sickening spell. If only he’d stopped it.

He couldn’t let himself wallow too much.

_Prongs said I deserved better. Now he’s gone._

_They said I killed him, but I didn’t._

_The rat was his secret keeper._

Draco’s brow furrowed. Whoever this was must be Padfoot. Regardless, he sounded absolutely mad. Maybe all the cleaning had been for nothing, Draco mused, eyes trailing over the etched stone.

_I wish I was back in school. Playing quidditch._

He sighed, “You and me both, Padfoot.”

_I am a good person._

He read until his eyes began to droop with exhaustion. Only then did he haul himself upright, settling under his blanket and onto the lumpy bed cushion in the corner of the room.

* * *

Someone was wailing.

For a moment, Draco thought it was his mother.

He was back in the Manor, walking down the hallway toward one of the many rooms on the first floor. Everything seemed darker, the air heavier, as his fingers wrapped around the metal doorknob. With a silent swing, the scene he heard was unveiled. His mother wasn’t wailing. It was Granger. That Mudblood was screaming, sprawled over a body, a raven haired body with eyelashes resting against his cheeks, chest unmoving. Potter.

“Draco, come in,” a voice purred.

Hermione’s eyes shot up to Draco’s own, tear filled orbs morphing into a hateful glare. Her gaze made a pit form in his stomach, but he didn’t have the time nor consciousness to speak to her.

The Dark Lord was walking toward him slowly, a Cheshire Cat smile curling his lips. “Harry Potter is dead.”

Draco’s heart stopped along with his feet, eyes flicking toward the boy that was supposed to save them all.

The Dark Lord’s voice was smooth as silk. “Aren’t you happy, Draco?”

“Yes.” It was a lie. They both knew it. He’d hesitated, and that second of hesitation, the too-long moment the word had spent lingering on his tongue, was all the proof the man needed.

His face was still relaxed, almost as if he’d been expecting such an answer from Draco, and his voice echoed through the room cool and crystalline. “Nagini, dinner.”

Draco’s feet were frozen in place as he watched the snake slither toward him. In an instant, he’d lost his moment to escape, her body snaking around his ankles like a vice grip, slowly working her way up his figure until he was off-balance enough to fall. With a thud, he landed on the wooden floor he’d spent his childhood playing on. It hurt, but as quickly as the pain had come, it dissipated, replaced by the crushing strength of Nagini’s coils. He tried to call out for help, writhing against the snake’s grasp, but all he could see was the sickening grin of the Dark Lord hovering above his body.

She leveled her face against his own, staring into his eyes. He could see himself reflected in her gaze, lost and terrified against the otherwise familiar room. With a quiet hiss, she reared her head, snapping forward and sinking her teeth into his flesh.

Draco shot up from the bed, throwing the blankets off his body. Immediately, his sweat soaked skin chilled from the breeze flowing through the cracks in his cell. His heart was pounding, whole body shaking with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Moonlight trickled in through the window, but the space was still blanketed in a haze of darkness, the same haze that lingered in his memories of the Manor. With an exhausted sigh, he layed back against the bed, rubbing both hands over his face.

Someone was wailing.

* * *

_I will leave here someday_.

The words were bittersweet. Most would die here, suffering and crying until the very end. Others would be freed through supplementary trials or serving their sentences. A rare few would escape. He hoped Padfoot had made it out somehow, not died, suffered forever within the walls of such a painful place. However, Draco knew the building had probably swallowed the wizard up. Most people don’t get to leave places like Azkaban still breathing.

He couldn’t help but close his eyes, though, and imagine Padfoot in some cottage in the forest somewhere. Free. Safe. Alive.

Draco would leave here someday. He’d carry the memory of Padfoot, framed but still fighting, though his days, and hope against hope that he’d accomplished the vow he made to himself.

Another phrase. _I’m sorry Moony. The time I owe you._ Below it, tick marks. Perhaps the time that Padfoot was in prison? Days? Weeks? Months? Draco didn’t know.

The floor was covered with stories, references to a life Draco would never know.

After he’d cleaned again, he’d found a new section of writing. It, however, carried much less pristine messages than the section of writing he’d found near the wall. The words no longer swirled with semi-coherent tales, but zig-zagged about the ground. The letters were scratched, scrambled phrases demonstrating the fall of the man’s mind.

_I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t the secret keeper._

_I should’ve died._

_The rat killed him. ~~Stupid rat died, too.~~ The rat must die._

_I am innocent._

_Only Wormtail will die at my hand._

_I must find him._

_Innocent. Innocent. Innocent._

_I will not die here. The Dementors cannot take me._

_It was not me._

_I did not kill him._

_I did not betray my brother._

It wasn’t his fault. Draco hoped someone else knew that, too.

* * *

It was a few weeks later when he finally had cleaned the last section of the floor and settled on the ground to read what was left of Padfoot’s tale. The writing here was deliberate, it seemed, with the words much more legible than they’d been in the middle of the cell.

_I must get out and save him. He needs me, and I must avenge his father. I must protect him. It is my duty._

It seemed like a vow, a promise. To whom Draco didn’t know. Beneath it, he noticed, another set of words.

_Harry Potter, my Godson._

Draco’s blood ran cold, fingers jolting from the text as if he’d been burned. His eyes flickered over the letters in horror as the realization set in.

This cell belonged to Sirius Black, Aunt Bellatrix’s cousin. The Sirius Black that she killed. The Sirius Black that broke out of Azkaban to warn Potter about Peter Pettigrew. The Peter Pettigrew that had told the Dark Lord about the Potters’ residence. The Peter Pettigrew that was brandished as a coward, the coward that served the Dark Lord.

He was going to be sick.

Turning toward the rusted bars of his cell, he retched.. Even when he ceased to possess anything _to_ retch, his body continued to dry-heave until his forehead fell against the metal, body slack with exhaustion.

His mind was whirling, fitting together all the stories he’d found etched into the ground in Sirius’s untidy hand. To connect the man in the stories, the man Draco had grown so fond of, so invested in, to Sirius Black, Potter’s Godfather, sent his mind spinning in directions he couldn’t even fathom.

It was all too overwhelming.

But his mouth burned with bitter taste of acid, and Draco knew that regardless of whether he wanted to curl up on his cot and sleep away the night or not, neither his racing mind nor roiling stomach would permit it.

* * *

He was a sorry sight, those first few months, with hollow eyes and a sorry disposition that radiated his intrigue of giving up. He allowed himself to wallow, regret his very existence. However, after a time, he forced himself back up again.

Coward or not, he was getting out of Azkaban, and he realized that he would not allow himself - even as simple as it would be - to crawl back into society like some gutter rat, drowned and starved for his crimes.

Four months, two days, and fifteen hours into his incarceration, he forced himself to do a few push ups.

The next day, it was a few push ups and a few sit ups.

As the days progressed, so did his forced athleticism.

No, Sirius Black wasn’t saint, but he _was_ incarcerated for something he didn’t do. Draco was being punished for something he _had_ done. He was determined to make it out alive, to live the life Sirius should have been given before he’d been thrown away to the Dementors.

He’d lost everything in his life, and so had Draco. But maybe they could both make it out alive.

* * *

Every so often, he got to see other prisoners. He was never permitted to see his parents - such compassion would be too kind for followers of the Dark Lord - or people that he knew from the outside world, but he was allowed to interact with some of the other prisoners that still retained their sanity.

Or a portion of their sanity.

Draco didn’t speak to any of them until his fifth month.

They were wiser than he expected them to be, rife with tales of the past, echoing similar experiences to Draco’s own. They were all searching for a way to claim their bodies and minds as their own.

One such man went by the name of Puck. He was an American, it seemed, from the way his accent caught on words. Puck didn’t say much about his past, but that didn’t matter. He focused on others, allowing them to claim back the skin on their bones.

In his sixth month, Draco approached Puck about his first tattoo.

It would be his first, but certainly not his last.

The ink could be enchanted, Draco learned, toward the end of his time in the prison. Beyond just stationery items like the Slytherin crest and his mother’s favorite flowers, mobile drawings - a zipping broom and a crashing wave, among others - soon swirled across his skin as well. He was littered with the dark lines; they trailed up his arms and across his chest. He liked it, getting to choose what marks resided on his pale flesh.

For the first time, he could look down at his body, now muscular from months of exercising and decorated in the way he saw fit, and find something he felt represented _him_.

Puck’s handiwork gave him hope, something he would be forever grateful for.

* * *

In the last month before his release, Draco asked Puck for a few new tattoos. They were phrases the blond had handpicked, words Sirius had scrawled into their cell. Those words, more than anything else, had provided him with the drive to recover, the drive to improve.

If Sirius Black could become a good person, a Godfather, after being framed for the death of his best friend and sentenced to Azkaban, even after coming from the household of Black, perhaps Draco could become a good person, too.

The words were marked into his skin, wrapping around his ribs as an eternal reminder of who he really owed his life to.

* * *

Absently, Draco rubbed a hand over his pristinely cut beard. He’d trimmed it down a sizable amount after he was released; although he initially despised the prickly hairs when they’d begun to grow on his face all those months ago, he couldn’t seem to part with them completely after reentering society.

His father would’ve hated it; Mother, too, probably would have gazed at it in dismay. A clean shaven face is a respectable face, they would always remind him in his youth. But now, here, in the real world again, the facial hair seemed like something he couldn’t see himself without. The time had changed him. As a man born anew in the world, free and functioning, he was determined to embrace all that he’d become in Azkaban.

He often wore T-shirts now, Muggle attire, articles of clothing he wouldn’t have ever dared wearing as a child. It would be a stretch to say he was flaunting his tattoos - both from prison and otherwise; however, he was much more comfortable allowing them to be seen.

Partaking in Muggle activities, though odd, brought him a remarkable sense of joy. None of them knew who he was or what had happened to him. He could go out for coffee without the stress of glares or uncomfortable conversations, dine in peace without reporters hounding him for the latest post-war drama, and, best of all, he could go out for a run, a walk, wearing whatever he pleased without fear of being attacked about the ink coating his skin. For all intents and purposes, the Muggles made him feel human again instead of some dastardly villain that had been incarcerated for taking part in a war where both sides killed. While wizards thought him a convict, Muggles thought him a soldier. That word was beginning to grow on him.

Of course, things were very different now. Most of his assets - including the Manor - had been seized by the Ministry, but he was left with a sizable amount of funds to make a living for himself.

He found a small home in a quiet part of the city, an area quite close to both the magical and Muggle worlds so he could come and go as he pleased. The latter was preferred nowadays, but being a wizard, occasional business in the magical world was required.

Thus accounted for his latest outing. Draco was walking briskly down the street, small rose held gently in his hand. He’d just been to Crabbe’s grave, placed a flower on his stone and bid him goodbye. However, that cemetary hadn’t held all he desired.

The grass was a vibrant green, sun sparkling off the blades in the late Spring weather. Draco adored it, being away from the swell of the sea and the darkness of the storms. He never wished to see gloomy skies again.

It didn’t take him very long to find the stone he wanted. It was well-kept, infinitely loved, he knew, and he knelt before it, placing the flower on the stone with the faintest of smiles. “I know you must be Moony. You helped keep Sirius alive in Azkaban. And he kept me alive. So thank you for that. I’m sorry neither of you got to end up with your children.” He was mumbling to the rock, eyes trailing over the words etched in the stone, another memory of another man.

_Remus Lupin. Husband. Teacher. Friend._

“Malfoy?” A voice broke through his thoughts.

Draco turned, eyes widening in surprise as he saw the last person he was expecting to see ever again. “Potter?”

Harry was eyeing him suspiciously, eyes trailing across Draco’s tattoo stained arms and bearded face. He hardly seemed like the Draco that had stood trembling, red-faced in shame at the hearing all those months ago. “What are you doing here?”

The blond glanced back toward the gravestone once more, tone softening. “I’m paying my respects.”

“You didn’t seem to respect him in school,” Harry jabbed, thrown off by the kindness in Draco’s voice, the lack of bite in his acknowledgement.

It was true. Draco hadn’t given any respect to the professor. However, things were different now. He’d changed. “I made a lot of mistakes back then,” he spoke gently, rising to his feet. He almost walked away without another word but thought better of it. Harry had suffered, too, Draco knew. They’d all suffered. They were nearly shoulder to shoulder when he stopped, head turning toward the hero, the right side of the war. “I’m sorry about Padfoot.”

Harry looked like he’d been struck, mouth agape, eyes the size of saucers behind his glasses. “How do you know?” The words were barely more than a whisper. He hadn’t heard the nickname in years; with their deaths and the deaths of their acquaintances, the Marauders’ nicknames had died with them.

“I wouldn’t have survived Azkaban without him.”

Draco turned to leave again, but was stopped by Harry’s words. He’d recovered from the initial shock, wand pointing at Draco’s back as anger contorted his features. “He’s dead. He’s been dead for a long time. How were you communicating with him?”

“He may be gone, but his cell isn’t.”

“What?” His brow furrowed, wand lowering as his mind seemed to whirl with questions.

The look Draco gave him was soft. Not kind, necessarily, but not totally devoid of compassion, either. “He wrote things in his cell, my cell. Evidently, it’s a small world.” With a shrug, he turned again, walking back down the path toward the gates.

“Malfoy?” he called out. The blond stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “Would you like to have some tea?”

A million reasons were spinning through Draco’s mind as to why it was a terrible idea, but somehow that didn’t stop him from answering. “Yes.”


	2. Where Foundations Form

The shop Harry chose was not far from the cemetery. There were others - three to be exact - that they passed along the way, but Harry insisted the one farthest up the road was the best around. Ordinarily, Draco would have never agreed to dining at a location in the Wizarding World, but, thankfully, Harry’s choice was scarcely populated.

Draco opted for Oolong while Harry took Darjeeling; he couldn’t help but smirk at how varied their tastes were. Both seemed to have recovered from the conversation in the cemetery, for which they were both grateful, but an awkward silence still lingered between them.

“How are you?” Harry asked, gaze meeting briefly before dropping back to his teacup.

“I’m well, thank you. And you?”

Harry chuckled. “As well as I can be, I suppose. Seems like things never settle down nowadays.”

Draco arched a brow. “Life as the Chosen One not easy?”

“More like life of an Auror, but yes, it’s quite chaotic. What about you?” he asked kindly, sidestepping over words, memories he dare not mention. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

They both knew what he meant.

Clearing his throat, Draco’s gaze fixated on a bird fluttering outside the window. “It has. I- well, I’ve been selling novels, actually. On the other side of town. It’s a half Magical, half Muggle store. I handle the Muggle side of things.” It was odd to admit that to Potter of all people, especially after the years of antagonizing his Muggleborn friend. However, Harry masked his shock remarkably well.

“That’s good.” His tone was encouraging. “Are you living in the Manor again?”

“It was seized.” Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, mind faltering to the point he nearly spilled his tea. Evidently he hadn’t heard. “I purchased a little house with my funds. Nothing fancy, but a livable space.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know-”

Draco waved him off. “It wasn’t a home I would’ve wanted to go back to anyway.”

They were quiet for a moment; the silence made Draco uncomfortable. He sipped his tea, wracking his brain for what to say to make things less uncomfortable between them. They’d never been on the best of terms.

Harry took the initiative for him. “You said you saw what he wrote? Sirius, I mean.”

Draco felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Of course they were going to talk about Azkaban.

But they didn’t.

Harry had tact, Draco realized, as they spoke. He wanted to know about the messages left by his Godfather, not the pain Draco had undergone in the prison. It was strange to speak to him in such a civilized sense; without the bitter rivalry between them, Draco thought they could’ve been friends. But maybe not. He _had_ been on the wrong side of the war, afterall. Even a person like Potter couldn’t forgive him for something like that. Could he?

They’d finished their tea. Draco still had a few more stories to tell. It wasn’t much, but he felt like Potter deserved every detail he could remember. But the tea was gone, the check had been paid, and Potter was rising from his seat. Draco was rising, too, getting up to leave the quaint shop, thanking the waitress once again.

They both shuffled out the door, exchanging stolen looks. Things weren’t perfect now; the two boys weren’t very comfortable together. However, they felt infinitely more comfortable than they had a few years prior. That shift in dynamic did not go unnoticed by either of them. Draco had changed now, but so had Harry. Although they both still made jabs and pushed buttons, it was much more civil, playful, even.

“Thanks for the tea,” Draco said, giving him a nod.

Harry gave him a half smile, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re welcome. I’m going this way.”

“My floo’s the other way.”

“Okay. It was good to see you,” he paused, “Draco.” The word sounded foreign on his tongue, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

“It was good to see you, as well, Harry.”

He could get used to that. With a small smile, he turned, beginning his walk down the sidewalk toward the restaurant with the floo he’d come from earlier in the day.

“Draco!” The blond stopped, turning back toward the boy who’d called his name. “Would you like to do tea again on Wednesday?” He looked unsure, worried Draco would say no.

“Same place?”

Harry nodded. “Around two?”

“Make it three, and I’ll see you then.”

Harry’s smile was contagious.

With that, Draco turned again, rounding the corner with a final smirking glance over his shoulder. He walked with a little extra pep in his step the rest of the day.

* * *

Wednesday couldn’t have come fast enough.

He was nervous, of course. He and Harry had quite the unresolved feud between them; a past history of bad blood is something you can’t merely smalltalk away. However, Draco still had more stories to tell.

He smiled at the familiar red door, tousling his hair one final time before stepping into the shop. The last thing he expected, ten minutes early for their meeting, was to see Harry already sitting at a corner table.

“You’re early,” Draco stated, surprise clearly evident in his voice.

A smirk. “So are you.”

Draco didn’t want to explain himself, admit his excitement. Instead, he sat down.

“I ordered you Oolong,” Harry offered.

He remembered. With a blush, Draco thanked him, reaching to steep the bag. He couldn’t recall what tea Harry took; it was perhaps something light and flowery, he thought, but he couldn’t place the name.

“Have you had a nice week thus far?” Draco asked, eyes trailing the plants growing along the wall.

Harry chuckled. “The excitement never seems to die down. Every time one problem gets wrapped up, ten more seem to find their way onto my desk.”

“Sounds droll,” he deadpanned, a playful glint in his eye.

“Not _near_ as exciting as a librarian,” he teased, rolling his eyes.

Draco scoffed. “Bookstore employee, thank you very much.”

“My apologies.”

It was still difficult for Draco to resist smiling.

* * *

Tea with Harry was proving to be surprisingly pleasant.

They met at least twice a week.

Of course, they bickered at times, and scathing remarks were shared before the subject would be changed, another pot of tea ordered. Draco hated the unsure expression that would wash across Harry’s face after such interactions. Things had been going so well; Draco hated to see their experimental friendship ruined over a few careless remarks.

The past was brought up in tentative strides. Usually, they were walking toward the cemetery, flowers in hand, to leave thanks for those that inspired them, those that deserved a better fate than death.

It was on one such excursion to the cemetery that Harry spoke of the past, jolting Draco from his otherwise cheerful disposition.

“I’m sorry they sent you to Azkaban. I really hoped my testimony would’ve been enough.” He’d been skirting around the topic since they’d first stumbled upon one another.

Draco stiffened, memories of the cool grey walls and tortured cries whizzing through his mind. His voice was tense when he found it, words flowing off his tongue with little thought. “It’s okay. I deserved the time I spent there.”

It was true, in his mind. He felt like he deserved every moment he’d spent in the prison. At first, he’d thought it nothing more than a curse, another way the world was damning him. However, looking back on his experiences now, he felt he deserved the time he spent there. He’d hurt people and done things to warrant his punishment. And, if anything, the experience had been beneficial to him, providing him with the chance to discover what he valued in life and figure his mind out before stepping back into society.

“You didn’t deserve-”

“ _Yes_ , I did,” Draco cut him off, voice biting. “I hurt people. I let people get hurt. I was a coward.”

“You weren’t a coward! You were a kid in a bad situation! You had a lot of difficult choices to make-”

“And I made the wrong ones,” he snapped. There was no changing his mind from that. Briefly, they fell into an uncomfortable silence. Draco’s cheeks were red, brows furrowed with the telltale signal of his agitation. Harry was silent, allowing Draco to cool down for a bit as he worked over the conversation inside his mind. Eventually, Draco broke the awkward stillness in the air. “Besides, if I hadn’t gone, I never would have had a reason to go out to tea with you to begin with.”

Harry glanced at him, still unsure. “Thank you for telling me those stories. About Sirius. It helped, to hear them.”

His eyes met Harry’s, shining with understanding and gratitude that he was willing to follow the change in conversation. Placing a kind hand on Harry’s shoulder, Draco spoke. “I’m glad.”

* * *

Draco enjoyed working at the bookshop. Although plenty of people came in for the usual cookbooks, knitting instructions, and tween romance novels, he was able to have an educated conversation with quite a few Muggles. That bit was entertaining.

He also was granted the opportunity to learn this way.

Draco had always been skilled in the classrooms of Hogwarts. Only when the weight of the world - his parents’ lives and Dumbledore’s demise - had been placed on his shoulders did his grades begin to slip. It was then that the other Slytherins stepped up to repay him for his help, albeit through scathing remarks, in their earlier years of study. For the first time in his life, Draco had struggled with classes; even then, it was only due to his lack of time to study, not a lack of academic capability.

Here in the Muggle world, though, Draco was in want of information. A place like a bookstore provided ample options for learning about Muggle subjects he would ordinarily never experience. It helped him blend in with the Muggles. And, in all honesty, he quite enjoyed learning about something new. Magical subjects, although interesting, were normal for him; understanding the Muggle world provided a fun challenge.

It had taken him a few months to figure out the basics, staying late at times to navigate the shelves and research what Muggles would most likely be looking for. Now, he considered himself pretty Muggle-savvy. Now that he had fallen out of favor with most wizards, Draco would take what he could get.

He’d assumed that Thursday would be a slow morning, but he was only partially correct. Early morning had been slow. A crawl, even. However around eleven, the shop picked up, and Draco was rushing around the store at lightning speeds to help all the customers that appeared. Apparently all the novel enthusiasts and history buffs in town had decided to come to the shop at once.

Okay, maybe that was a bit of a stretch, but Draco was monumentally busy, nevertheless. It seemed like as soon as one person walked out, five more would enter.

He was just finishing restocking some mystery novels when he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Yes?” he asked, turning.

He was met with dark hair and a familiar sassy smirk. “Hi there _bookstore employee_.”

“Hi, Harry,” he deadpanned.

Draco’s stomach rumbled a greeting of its own.

Harry grinned. “Hungry?”

The blond nodded, yawning. “It was really busy in here earlier. I haven’t had lunch yet.”

The grin fell from Harry’s face. “What?”

“It was a long morning.”

“Can you take off to eat now?” he asked, glancing around the empty room. Draco nodded. “I’ll buy lunch if you buy me dinner.”

The offer was sweet, and the promise of more encounters was all too tempting to take up. “Deal.”

The store was locked up, and Harry led the way toward a small cafe down a sidestreet. In the whirlwind of it all, Draco hadn’t even thought about what an oddity it was for Harry to appear at his work until they were halfway down the street. “Why’d you come all the way down here?”

“Well,” Harry scratched his neck, biting his lip bashfully. “I wanted to see you.”

* * *

There was a park that Harry liked to take walks in. It was relatively small, but he liked it all the same. After working long hours in the office, sometimes it was nice to spend the day in some fresh air.

Lately, he’d been inviting Draco to walk with him.

It was pleasant. The park was spacious enough they could avoid interacting with most people, wandering down the lightly wooded paths. Usually they would go out to dinner, then round out the evening with a stroll through the park.

Tonight was no different. Except that, well, it was _extremely_ different.

They’d been making jokes as usual, sharing interesting stories about work and adventures, when the first crack shook them to their toes. The sky was turning dark, swirling with storm clouds that seemed ready to pour over any moment.

Rain reminded Draco of Azkaban. He wasn’t a fan of rain anymore.

Usually he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but being around Harry for long enough had caused him to relax. He flinched at the second boom of thunder, an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Harry. His hand brushed Draco’s arm gently; a small assurance.

“Would you like to go back to mine? Get out of the weather?”

Draco nodded as the first few drops splattered onto the pavement. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

They were sopping wet. Rain drenched from the storm, they’d finally made it to Harry’s flat. Panting and chuckling as they’d shoved through the door and into the small foyer, water rushed from their clothes, pooling on Harry’s rug.

Harry removed his shoes, Draco following shortly after, and stepped into his living room. He retrieved them each a towel. “Here, get dried off.”

Draco scrubbed the water out of his hair and tried his best to stop dripping on Harry’s carpet. His companion disappeared around the corner, reappearing a moment later in fresh clothes.

He was holding a stack of dry garments out toward Draco, a shy smile upturning his lips. “Some fresh clothes? I thought you might like to be dry.”

The light was low, a cool grey seeping through the blinds as the rain pitter-pattered outside. There was no silence, only a comfortable quiet, and Draco liked it that way. He hadn’t been in the space for more than a few minutes, but it was long enough to know that Harry’s home felt safe. The air tingled with Harry’s magic, the warmth oozing like caramel around his body. Distantly, Draco’s mind whispered that he could just use a little magic to dry his soggy clothes. Harry was staring at him, though, with that unsure, vulnerable look that kept passing over his face when he was around Draco, the look that Draco hoped he could expel entirely from Harry’s muscle memory.

He took the clothes, shot Harry a grateful smile. Then hesitation.

Harry didn’t know about the words scrawled across Draco’s skin, the hidden words from Sirius that enabled him to live day by day. Would Harry hate him for the tattoos? Would he think it selfish, Draco’s connection with his Godfather? He stared at the clothes, skin prickling with goosebumps.

Harry could sense his uneasiness. “Would you prefer if I leave?” His voice was soft, still unsure, and Draco didn’t want him to feel at fault.

“No, no. I- nobody’s seen me shirtless since…” he trailed off. His mind was whirling with Azkaban, the memories, the fresh sting of tattoos and new identities.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.” Draco was already pulling down his pants, slipping into the clean joggers. That was the easy part, the part he didn’t mind Harry seeing so much. Fingers wrapping around the hem of his shirt, he pulled the soaked fabric over his hair, dropping it onto the ground with his abandoned jeans. His eyes met Harry’s. Red climbed up his neck, staining each cheek, under Harry’s stare. He felt so vulnerable like this, with Harry staring at the words marked across his flesh. When he’d put them there all that time ago, he’d never imagined Harry or anyone else that ever knew Sirius seeing them. Now his mind was whirling with doubts. Was it a mistake to befriend Harry? To get the tattoos? Was Harry going to think him mad? Banish him out into the rain again?

Harry was approaching him. His voice was breathy, almost desperate, as his fingertips reached out to brush the taunt skin on his ribs. “Are those Sirius’s words?”

“Yes.”

His lashes fluttered as Harry traced the letters on his body, gaze cloudy with an emotion Draco couldn’t focus on placing. “You got his words tattooed on your body?”

“They gave me hope.” It was Draco’s turn to sound shy, nervous under Harry’s scrutiny.

But it didn’t matter.

Harry’s hands were drifting from his ribs, resting against Draco’s cheeks as his lips pressed into Draco’s. The kiss was soft, gentle, over as quickly as it had begun, and Harry pulled away panting, breaths ghosting over Draco’s lips. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Draco’s hands were squeezing Harry’s sides as he pulled him closer, lips connecting again in a desperate frenzy of shaking breaths and pressing lips. Harry was trembling as his hands slid to Draco’s neck, his collarbone, lavishing in the exposed skin there. Draco was intoxicating, from the ink dancing under his skin to the taste of morning brew that touched Harry’s lips. His beard scraped against Harry’s chin, but he didn’t mind that. The sensation was rough, rugged; it kept him in the here and now.

Draco was kissing Harry like his last breath was hidden behind Harry’s chapped lips. His fingers were digging into Harry’s waist, slipped up under his shirt so he could relish in the feel of Harry’s warm skin. It felt strange, being touched like this, being given gestures of love and affection, especially from someone that used to hate him so entirely. But Harry didn’t seem to hate him now, not over dinner, not here where his tongue was teasing Draco’s lips. Draco shuddered against him and pulled him closer. He felt on fire, skin alight in every area Harry touched him. He groaned low in his throat before disconnecting their kiss, panting as his forehead rested against Harry’s.

“Would you like to stay for a while?” Harry whispered.

“I’d love to.”


	3. When Restorations Resolve

It had been five years since he’d been released from Azkaban, and Draco’s mind was a never ending trove of wonder. He never imagined he’d end up here.

But, somehow, here he was, standing in front of an ornate mirror, fixing his tie for the hundredth time and trying not to worry over his appearance too much.

He’d touched up his hair countless times throughout the day, fluffing the top and making sure the long bits weren’t caught in the shorter sides. The white-blond beard on his chin had been freshly trimmed - he still couldn't seem to part with the look. None of his friends seemed to mind, though. Even his wizarding companions were starting to come around to it, though Pansy found the facial hair quite undignified. His mother would’ve said the same.

He liked to think Mother was watching over his shoulder in spirit - she’d died two years prior in the prison - with secret pride. He was happy now, and though she would’ve despised his fashion choices and profession with Muggles, in his mind he hoped that she forgave all the little details she otherwise would’ve loathed. Sure, he didn’t look like a pureblood wizard, but his blood mattered little now. The Malfoy name, the Malfoy legacy, was all but entirely destroyed. When he gave his name to any witch or wizard, their face immediately filled with scorn. He was glad she wasn’t around to see that.

He pulled his sleeves down again, hiding the tattoos that worked their way across his skin. His suit jacket hung off to the side, encouraging him to put it on. It had been whispering his name since he’d ordered it, but save a fitting, he’d been too nervous to put it on, too terrified to ruin it.

There was a disturbance outside the door, though. A series of loud voices, a few laughs. Three knocks.

It was almost time.

The black jacket slid over his shoulders, settled against his black vest. It looked nice on him, he thought. Draco hoped he wasn’t the only one to think that.

He began fixing his tie again.

The door clicked open this time, letting some of the noise trickle in with his guest. Hermione was approaching him; he could see her reflection in the mirror, tamed hair, ornate dress. She was still wary, he knew, concerned about his past and his influence, but she accepted him for the most part. Her eyes were kind when they met his in the reflection. “Stop fussing. You look nice, Draco.”

“Do you think it’s good enough?” he asked, vulnerability snaking its way across his features.

She was only a few steps behind him now, that same kind look held in her expression. “I think _you’re_ good enough. And all the little details won’t matter when you step away from the mirror.”

It was true. As soon as he looked away, he’d be too distracted to care about his appearance. There were much more important things to focus on.

And it was time. He was ready. So he turned, extending an elbow to the brunette. “Shall we?”

The room was quiet, sparsely populated with only a chosen few friends and family littering the space; however the eyes on him were deafening. It felt like the world was watching and waiting for him to make some catastrophic mistake that would ruin everything.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood, and he smiled. Really, it was only a smirk, something to mask the nervousness, but that, too, faltered soon enough. The people walking by him didn’t matter much, Lovegood here, Longbottom there, another Weasley.

He smiled when he saw Teddy, though. All kind smiles and clever words, he was a lot like his father. Harry had told him that. He was grinning as he walked by Draco, trying to keep his hair one color. Draco wouldn’t have minded in the slightest if it changed colors, but Teddy was determined. He wanted to match with everyone else. The gesture was sweet.

Draco’s gaze shifted again, hovering on the back wall, waiting for the only person that mattered.

And then he saw him.

Harry looked stunning in his pressed suit, arm linked with Ron’s. He was grinning ear to ear, and Draco realized he was smiling, too. He couldn’t help it. There was something about Harry that broke through his walls, left him softer.

Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, stepping forward to take Harry’s hands. They were sweaty, he realized with a small chuckle, but that didn’t really matter because his were sweaty, too. And Harry was staring at him with a look of pure joy.

Ron nodded at Draco, a smile, the unspoken promise that Draco was approved of.

His heart was soaring, blush settling on his cheeks as he looked at Harry again. He was meant to be looking at the woman to his right, but he couldn’t seem to shift his gaze from Harry’s bright eyes, filled to the brim with the excitement of a new future.

Draco had found his place. He might have been a traitor, a coward, a failure during the war, but Harry didn’t think so. Harry saw him as brave, courageous, fiercely protective of those he loved and willing to make every sacrifice necessary to protect them. At night, he would kiss Draco’s tattoos and tell him all the things he deserved in life. He deserved to grow old and happy with the confidence that he was a good person. Draco may not have been as innocent as Sirius, but they had all suffered. Harry’s hand wasn’t pure; it had fought and killed and avenged just like Draco’s had. But together they were growing, moving past the darkness and the doubts to find a future containing a version of themselves they both were satisfied with.

The woman began to speak, and Harry squeezed his hands. One final reassurance.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter…”

And together, with Sirius's words engraved on Draco's skin, and Harry and Draco's love swallowing their hearts, they all make it out alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! I thought it was a fun idea, Draco ending up in Sirius's cell, and I kind of ran with it. If you'd like, you can come say hi to me over on [Tumblr](https://silentexplorer18.tumblr.com/)! :)


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